


A Collection of Detective (and not-yet-Detective) Bering-Wells scenes

by Typey



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: AU, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-26 09:49:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Typey/pseuds/Typey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one-shots I wrote over the spring once the Bering and Wells fandom kidna...er, adopted the Meghan Ory character in Intelligence as Myka and H.G.'s daughter. Posted here in the order I wrote them, and there's no real timeline continuity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Univille Career Day

“Mom! Mama!” She scampered through the living room to the kitchen, where she knew there’d be chocolate chip cookies and both of her mothers.

“That type of screeching, while clearly indicating obvious levels of excitement, is inappropriate for inside the house, darling.” Mama wasn’t really stern with her, but she took the guidance for what it was and stopped, stood straight and spoke slowly.

“Next week is career day in school, and I’d really like one of you to come. I know that you’d have to talk about the IRS instead of all the cool stuff you do with Uncle Pete and Uncle Steve and Aunt Claudia, but I’d really like you to meet some of my friends. And I’d like you to see the poster I’ve been working on at school for what I’d like to be when I grow up.”

“And what’s going to go on the poster, honey? Archaeologist?” Her mom was standing up behind her mama, but they had that way of sharing the same, secret smile even though they couldn’t see each other.

“It’s a surprise.” She bounced up on her toes a bit, certain her mama wouldn’t really mind that kind of display of excitement.

And she had just as much of the energy — tempered by all of the restraint she’d learned from her moms — as she presented her poster on “When I Grow Up I Want To Be A Police Detective.”

This time her moms weren’t sharing a secret smile, but they both had that same slightly wide-eyed look. After she’d read through her notecards and explained why finding the answers to things mattered, her moms led the standing ovation and shone beaming smiles.

But she asked them at the end anyway, “don’t you like what I want to be?”

“Oh, darling. You’ll make a wonderful detective. And I know that you will never stop until you have the answers.” Her mama looked at her mom and continued, “and you will always believe the best outcome is going to be possible, because you’re your mom’s daughter.”

Her mama folded her into a hug, and her mom wrapped long arms around both of them.

“I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.”

She pulled away quickly, eyes flashing again. “Mama, mama! Did you see I wore the locket! I wanted to wear something from you two while I was up there.”

“I did, darling. I did see the locket.”


	2. Her Mothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She takes the news the way her mothers would have expected.

She stood in front of him, stoic like her mom and defiant like her mama.

Pete had watched her grow up from a little girl bouncing through life with all the wide-eyed wonder her literary and literature-loving mothers could have bestowed. She had eased into adulthood with a self assurance and an indomitable spirit Pete could only attribute to the attentiveness, high expectations and unconditional love of her mothers.

Her law enforcement career had come as no surprise to any of them after years of her demands to be recognized as “Detective Bering-Wells” during make-believe games and on vacations and for much of the fifth grade entirely. And Pete knew the types of things she’d seen since she had become a cop. Myka and H.G. had eventually shared with her the impact of Christina’s death on her mama, and they all, as a family, talked to her about the Bronze Sector; but he knew that she’d probably guessed at far more of what her mothers — and all Warehouse agents — had encountered than any of them had ever actually admitted to her.

Pete had lost his father young and his mother when he was a full-fledged adult. Watching his niece stand there, bereft at such a young-seeming 26, she recalled to his mind so much the women she was now beginning to mourn — she was a vision of the Myka Pete first met; she exuded Helena’s refined dignity and casual elegance that for so long drove Pete mad for seeming utterly dismissive.

A single tear slipped down her cheek, and she made no move. Her mama had always wiped away her tears, Pete knew. One sharp intake of breath was all she needed to conquer the sobs threatening to erupt, and Pete was sure they would come once she was home. She would almost certainly allow them to rise when she began to sort through her mothers’ room.

It had been years since Mykes and H.G. had been in the field at all, let alone together, and they hadn’t thought to take the once-habitual steps of preparing for possible bad outcomes; to make sure the trauma of artifact-induced death was not made worse by having to manage logistics.

But she was going to have to manage — and would likely insist to Pete, Steve and Claudia that she do it alone — the mundane tasks left to her by departed parents. Dirty laundry in the hamper. An unmade bed. Loose jewelry on top of the dresser. Her mama’s vest half-hanging off the back of a chair. Post-it notes stuck to every surface and between the pages of most of their books.

She was doing an admirable job keeping it together in the precinct, and her mothers would be proud, as they ever were and ever would be. But she had yet to say anything to Pete. He reached forward to offer her the option of a hug. Instead of leaning into him as she had so often while reading or watching tv or studying the stars, she found one last inch of height to straighten her spine. Looking at him clearly and with a voice untouched by the turmoil that was surely rocking her foundations, she said, “They will share a headstone, and it will read, ‘forever destined’.”


	3. Vestiges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's easier to snag an artifact than deal with your daughter being in the hospital.

They strode purposefully into the waiting area, two sets of eyes sweeping efficiently and in a pattern perfected over years together. Myka spotted a full-length white coat first and headed straight toward the doctor.

“Doctor…” she searched for a name tag for half a moment before deciding pleasantries were entirely beside the point. She flipped her badge open in a move she had practiced in front of the mirror as a young secret service agent, and she was very glad of the authority it imbued right now in this hospital. “Patient last name Bering-Wells. Appendicitis. Where?”

A hand landed softly on her lower back, but she knew Helena would be too worried to find the words to soften Myka’s edge. The doctor showed no alarm at the barked words and returned Myka’s question with one of her own. “Daughter or criminal?”

Myka narrowed her eyes and ground out “daughter” even while registering Helena’s soft exhalation that indicated at least some level of amusement.

The doctor seemed rather pleased with herself for inciting the two opposing reactions simultaneously. If only she knew how proud she should be, Myka thought, of bringing Helena out of her head and her terror and her silence if only for a moment.

It was not the first time their daughter had been sick, of course, but each time a fever spiked or a flu came on, Helena seemed to travel back more than a century to when illness killed and doctors were more likely to be drunk than capable. Her worst fear — losing a daughter — sent her rational mind scattering and left her lost for words. That flight of her primary way of life, her primary defense and weapon, was as unsettling to Helena as the worst-case scenarios racing through her mind. Myka was direct with the doctor because it was her nature to take charge, but also because her wife needed to see their daughter. Now.

“Now.”

“Room 6. She’s out of surgery, which went very well.” Myka fairly launched herself toward the indicated room with Helena tucked to her side and trailed by the still unruffled doctor.

“She’ll be all right?” The quiet question in Helena’s crisp accent surprised Myka a bit. Talking was good, though, she acknowledged as they entered the room.

“Yes. Though, as always with post-surgical patients, we’ll be watching for signs of infection.” The doctor checked a chart and continued, “her temperature was fine…25 minutes ago.” After casting one last glance at the two women hovering at the 20-year-old’s bedside, the doctor turned to leave.  
Hearing the door click shut, Helena fairly collapsed into her wife. Myka wrapped one arm around Helena’s shoulders and reached across to take her left hand in her own right, laying their interlocked fingers on their daughter’s sternum. The beeping from the monitor matched the steady thump they could feel; and after several minutes standing like that together, it also matched each of their pulses thudding between their palms.

“Myka, please tell me she really will be all right.”

“She will.”

“Yeah, mama. Who would you go after if appendicitis killed me?”

Their daughter opened one eye cautiously, obviously checking for a reaction to (reprimand for?) her pointed, and perhaps unkind, off-the-cuff and on-the-painkillers comment.

But Myka was desperately trying not to laugh at her wife’s slack-jawed disbelief.

“Wha…darling!” Relief seemed to win out over both Helena’s remaining fear and her irritation, and even over the vestiges of the wound that opened every time she thought of Christina and her revenge and her mindless quest to end the world. Myka stayed back as Helena reached a hand to cup their daughter’s cheek and gazed intently into her eyes.

“I’m all right, mama. I promise. I’m sorry that I scared you.”

“Oh, you didn’t scare me, darling. Though I have to admit I didn’t handle the middle-of-the night call from your resident assistant very well. I may have told her that if anything went wrong before your mother and I could get here than she’d never work in whatever ill thought-out career she’d decided on this week.” Myka noted that Helena had the grace to look mildly abashed while admitting that loss of decorum to her daughter. “I will send her chocolates, though, in apology. And in deep gratitude for recognizing your need and getting you here posthaste.”

“Well, maybe I owe you some chocolate for that comment just now?” And their daughter’s definitely abashed look was so much like her mama’s — slightly open mouth, teeth together, brow furrowed lightly above questioning eyes. Sure that the health scare was over, Myka found the whole scene just too adorable to remain silent.  
“No need for chocolate, dear. And I will make sure to keep an eye on your mother so she doesn’t start investigating ways to alter the course of evolution.”


	4. The Are-You-Fucking-Serious Head Tilt is Genetic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Atlas-66](http://atlas-66.tumblr.com/post/46844352164) gave us this absolutely perfect gifset.

Myka was on her hands and knees at the edge of the bed, hunting around for her other slipper listening to Helena recap the end of the day. It was something so very domestic that the two of them did now that they tended to trade off time in the Warehouse with after-school care of their daughter.

“And she was very proud of the grade she earned on her science fair project. I had figured her teacher would be pleased with the circuitry we’d worked on.”

“Mmmmhmmmm.” Myka was distracted by everything she was finding under the bed that wasn’t her slipper…a stack of post-its she tucked into her waistband to be replaced on her nightstand where they belonged.

Helena continued airly, “…and then she and I discussed the differences in having sex with a woman and having sex with a man.”  
“Helena, you taught her what about sex? She’s SEVEN!” The disbelief evident in the tilt of her head and slightly open mouth — as if the next words out of her were going to be a rather uncouth “are you fucking serious?!”

“Seven is old enough to ask questions, Myka.”

“So you gave our daughter the ‘where do babies come from’ talk without me?” Myka was a bit hurt that she hadn’t been there; cataloging dangerous artifacts was important, but nothing compared to sharing milestones with her daughter and wife.

“Actually, she already knew about babies, it seems. She was more concerned with sussing out the options. Clever girl, I’d say.” Helena looked far too smug.

“Please tell me you did not…”

“Well, I certainly didn’t go into personal details. But she’s inquisitive — like you — and asked about sex. So I told her.”

Myka dropped her head into her hands, trying desperately to formulate a response, any response, to the mingling irritation at her wife’s casual discussion with their seven-year-old of sex and the irrational regret at not having been the one their daughter asked.

“Myka? I believe the phrase is ‘April Fool’s!’”

*****************************************************************************

First dates were easier than this. Moms weren’t there on first dates (especially if you weren’t quite forthcoming about it being a “date” in the first place). Moms were there for the apparently necessary interrogation when a relationship became official.

Earlier that afternoon her mama had pointed out that a Victorian girl wouldn’t have been let out of a chaperone’s sight, so really what kind of hardship was it to sit down and introduce her girlfriend to her mothers? Her mama always won.

She sighed deeply and tried not to show any of the nervousness she felt — because being anything less than calm and collected would mean both of her moms would have already won. But what if they didn’t get along? What if her mothers objected? What if she could see disappointment or skepticism or uncertainty in their eyes even if they gave a show of support? Could she handle being coddled because it was her first real relationship? What if they thought she was a bad judge of character?

Three sharp knocks on the front door brought her out of her thoughts. She nearly missed the matching grins on her moms’ faces as she sprang up to let in her girlfriend.  
By the time she got to the door, she was too distracted by what mischief her parents were up to to keep herself from a chaste peck and a hand on her girlfriend’s waist.  
Her mama’s wolf-whistle made her flush just a bit, and her girlfriend’s easy reply — “Yeah, I wasn’t expecting to be allowed PDA before I’d proven myself” — caused the flush to deepen.

Her mama had definitely given her mom a meaningful glance at the retort before looking back at the only non-Bering-Wells in the house.

“Yes, well. Prepare yourself for trial by combat.” She raised an eyebrow ominously. “Weapon?”

A smirk accompanied a nearly arrogant, “words.”

Her mama’s deep, rumbling laugh surprised her girlfriend, but it wouldn’t have if she’d really known them. The only person who could keep up with words with Helena G. Wells was Myka O. Bering.

“Oh, we’ll see,” her mama practically sang.

“Mama, don’t actually challenge her. Please?” she almost begged. “She’s sixteen. And I’d like to have a good date. Can’t you just give her a tour of the house, lay down some ground rules and then send us to the movies with some cash?” Hopeful eyes she’d inherited from her mom seemed to win her mama over, despite a set of narrowed eyes at the mention of free money.

“I guess,” her mama sighed exaggeratedly.

Contrived drama notwithstanding, her moms did in fact give a tour and lay out rules: outside on the property, fine (as long as cell phones were nearby); porch, fine; living room, fine with lights on; office could be entered but was not for hanging out; moms’ room, private; her room, door open; guest room, no.

They came back downstairs to the kitchen for lemonade and cookies (and so her mom could slip her a couple of twenties her mama wouldn’t need to know about).

“The kitchen is for eating, of course. And you may do your schoolwork here, as well. So we can keep an eye on you,” her mama added with a smirk. “You’re more than welcome to set up here when we’re not home, as well, and I might even prefer that.”

Her mama then turned to her slightly more reserved than before girlfriend — who wouldn’t be a bit overwhelmed by a Bering and a Wells? — “Just keep in mind that Ms. Bering and I have only confirmed that the kitchen table will withstand heavy use up to a maximum of 260 pounds.”

“Helena, shouldn’t that calculation take into account the length of time it was under stress?”

“Ah, yes. Of course. The first time was, what? Thirty minutes? The second…”

“Moms, you cannot say that in front of my girlfriend. I don’t want to know that you have tested the weight-bearing limitations of the kitchen table.” She was sure she’d cocked her head to the side just like her mom did and just like her mama did, but right now getting them to stop was more important than realizing she’d finally, fully given in to their cringe-inducing mannerisms.

If she thought she could get away with it, this would have been the perfect time for an incredulous, “are you fucking serious.” But knowing her parents, her mom would chide her language and her mother would make a pun on the adverb.

Looking behind her to see a very red-faced teen, she choked out, “you’re embarrassing her!”

“Her?” Mom chuckled and swung a half-eaten Twizzler around for emphasis. “We were just talking about how many of the flagstones we stacked on it last year when we redid the patio. What did you have on your mind”

*****************************************************************************  
Helena walked into the B&B’s parlor to the always-pleasing sight of her wife curled up in the armchair, toes poking out from under the edge of a blanket, a book propped on one knee and one hand twirling absently through thick curls.

Her quiet study of her wife was brought to a loud, messy, Pete-induced end. “Yo, HG! It’s super quiet around here, didn’t realize you were back,” he announced, bounding into the room like a puppy.

"Yes, Pete. It was quiet.” He winced a bit at the formal name and even more formal tone.

But Helena couldn’t really hold his exuberance against him; things were quiet, no one’s life was in danger, and the late afternoon light was streaming through the windows.

She offered a sincere question to soften the moment. “Did you have any grand plans for the rest of your ‘quiet’ day?”

“I tried to convince Mykes to do some skills testing, but she’s more interested in re-reading your novels.”

At that little tidbit, Myka’s head shot up and she reached into the ever-present bag of Twizzlers to throw one of the candies at her partner. She looked sweetly over to Helena, though, and added in a low near-rumble, “I love reading them with your voice in my mind.”

“Oh, get a room,” Pete honked at them childishly only to have Myka turn her head back toward him with her tongue stuck out.

Pete, of course, ignored the similarly childish response. “Come on, HG. You feel like a little…” he hunched over, rubbing his hands together and grimacing in a caricature of a seedy con man, “…wager?”

“What are the stakes?”

“You don’t even know the bet yet.”

“I will not engage in any competition without knowing what I stand to lose.” A challenging facade couldn’t hide from any of them that she would abide by that self-imposed rule — she’d learned many hard things in her life, and loss was highest among them.

“Ahem, well.” Pete straightened up and pursed his lips, thinking. “I win, you bake me cookies for a week. My choice of flavors.” She nodded. “You win, I take Artie, Leena, Claudia and Steve on a daytrip to see some totally boring regional festival to get us out of the house all day.” She grinned.

“Let’s have it, then. Challenge?”

“Fastest out of a pair of handcuffs — seated in a chair, arms behind the back.”

Myka looked at Pete as if he’d lost his mind. Helena looked at him as if he couldn’t possibly be serious.  
She sat down in the nearest chair, tilted her head to the side and said, “Pete, you don’t honestly think you can win that bet, do you? Breaking out of handcuffs is a skill I learned more than a century ago, demonstrated to you so ably in my own home, and may have perfected over the course of several very interesting nights with Myka.”

“Et voila” Pete pointed an index finger at Helena, seeking acknowledgment of his use of her turn of phrase from that very same day she was handcuffed in her study. He then turned toward Myka, palm up.

Helena’s confusion at the obviously inane wager and Pete’s sudden change in focus heightened as her wife dug into a pocket for what looked like fifty dollars.

Snapping the bills a few times and giving each of them a good whiff, Pete raised his own eyebrows and enlightened her: “Myka bet me fifty bucks I couldn’t get either of you to admit to any of your hanky-panky in the bedroom. Letting you all have the B&B for a day so I could beat her? Totally worth it.”

Smiling broadly, Helena couldn’t help but give Pete a little jab. “Well, if you’d played her for more money, perhaps you would have learned about some of the actual ‘hanky-panky’ we get up to. Handcuffs are nothing, dear Peter. And fifty dollars was very much worth the day to ourselves.”

She winked, he sputtered and Myka turned back to her book.


	5. Recruit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What salutes mean to a Bering-Wells.

She was finally here. In the Academy. In a uniform. In front of an instructor searching for any crease out of place.

“Bering-Wells, sir!” She snapped a salute much sharper than any of the ones her mama used to playfully — and wrong-handedly — give her mom to stem brewing disagreements or make her smile.

She remembered explaining to her mother repeatedly and with growing exasperation that salutes were right-handed. Foot-stomping was most definitely not allowed in their house, but she came mighty close once or twice when watching her mama touch her left fingertips to her brow and smile as she said, “aye, aye.”

At ten years old, she couldn’t understand that her mothers had their own language of meaning and memories, and the wrongness bothered the innate sense of order she’d gotten from her mom. Even make-believe had to have structure.

But Claudia packed her a picnic for the backyard one day, and they sat out in the sun making up adventures and inventing characters to play. When they paused to eat the sandwiches her mama had lovingly nestled in a basket that was packed with fruit and snacks and a few post-it notes with ideas for stories, Claudia said that maybe it was okay for her moms to do things slightly differently from everyone else; that her mom could be a captain and her mama could salute funny. It was how they’d been before, and before would always matter to them.

So over the last dozen years, as she’d practiced her own salute in front of mirrors where her reflection saluted back left-handed, she would think of her mama. And she was glad to think of her now, as she stood at attention in a uniform for the first time.


	6. She was Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on a screencap of Age Before Beauty, what _else_ that picture could have been.

Helena barked out a laugh at the expression on her daughter’s face. They were all three sitting on the couch together, Helena writing while Myka showed off the contents of a shoebox of old photos.

"Mom! What are those earrings? And those eyelashes? PLEASE tell me you were undercover for something!” The near-shout would normally have earned at least a soft rebuke from Helena, but she indulged her teenage daughter’s very understandable exasperation. Myka did look rather…well, out of character in that get-up. Fetching, but out of character.

Myka smiled at the photo for a moment longer before explaining some of the circumstances of the photo.

"I wasn’t undercover," Myka offered with a smile. "Pete had gotten us to play a game with bizarre stakes" — Helena did not miss the sidelong glance Myka shot her way in the middle of the sentence and turned up one corner of her mouth in a smirk at the memory of her own suggestion for losers, one that involved a week of personal service around the B&B — "and Steve lost. He had offered up paying for a night at the one gay-friendly bar in a hundred miles…for Disco Night."

Their daughter couldn’t decide where to look — at her mother, pretending to still be focused on her notebook, or at her mom, who seemed particularly proud of the memory of that night.

And, Helena though, why shouldn’t she be?

Because what Myka wasn’t sharing with their impressionable daughter — what no daughter wanted to hear about her mothers — was how the pair of them won that night’s costume competition. Helena in a white suit with a wide-collar shirt under a silver vest and matching silver platform shoes and Myka in an indecently short polyester dress and knee-high white boots. The two of them strutting around the place as if they owned it, engaging in scandalous displays of affection — and something quite beyond affection — to the roars of an appreciative crowd.

Helena gave up the pretense of working on her next story and reached her arm around their daughter, pausing for a moment to squeeze her shoulder before taking up Myka’s hand.

"She may not have been undercover, sweetheart, but she was something."


	7. Fuzzy Dice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a gifset of Intelligence

Her new partner kept talking, describing a bizarre set of events involving a car theft that turned out not to be a theft and a Lamborghini that turned out to be a minivan. And he was distressed that anyone could confuse the two, and that an old Dodge Caravan could get pickup like that in city traffic.

No one had been hurt but lots of people who’d seen the car chase were confused, and no one’s story was the same. All the witnesses were telling different stories, and he was grumbling about having to sort through all the paperwork for the confused married couple in holding who kept muttering to themselves about that pair of fuzzy dice they’d found at a yard sale.

She smiled discreetly and let him know that she’d had some experience with stuff like what was in the file and that she’d be happy to look into it over the weekend since he had plans out of town for the holiday.

When he asked whether she didn’t have family to see, she said her moms would totally understand if she had work to do while they visited. 

He gave her a skeptical look about taking on the file by herself — she read the question about whether she was just kissing ass as the rookie but ignored it — and wondered how there was anything at all to resolve, since the couple had been detained.

"Oh, I think it’ll turn out to be something boring, and we’ll end up writing them up for reckless driving. I mean, no destruction of property, right?"  
He nodded and started to gather his things from his desk.

"You sure your family won’t mind?"

"I’m sure, partner."

He left the bullpen, and she pulled out her phone to call home.

"Mama, how do you feel about bringing a static bag when you come by tomorrow?"


	8. Winning the Bet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From another Intelligence gifset.

Yeah, so she was sitting here in the bullpen getting chewed out by her Captain for going just a bit rogue on a case that more-senior detectives had ostensibly been in charge of. And her suit was a ragged mess piled on her desk, and her sweats from her locker still smelled like the gym. And the captain was lighting into her six ways from Sunday. But all she could do was re-run the course of events in her head looking for gaps in her logic or less-than-optimal decisions she’d made along the way: because that’s what her mom and mama had taught (expected) her to do, and that process had gotten her to Detective quicker than any of her colleagues.

So she thought about how she’d taken control in front of the whiteboard, assigning out officers to different areas to track down the perp. How she’d worn her badge with authority, and used her knowledge (having read every file, every note, every scrap of information) with confidence.

Perhaps she hadn’t needed to make the bet with her new partner on being able to close the case in less than a day, but standing in the fading light of the evening looking at that fifty had made her feel pretty good. And it had given her just a bit more swagger in her step than she’d probably even ever seen her in mama. 

The fact that she had turned her back on the perp in order to gloat was what had landed her here, though. He was handcuffed and standing with two beat cops by the car, but the lecture she was getting about not letting a guy you just arrested see you forget about him was pretty on target. The tackle she’d taken onto the rocky ground destroyed her suit and dinged her dignity, but she could look her captain in the eye at the end because they both knew she’d put the perp down in seconds.

She didn’t tell him, though, that it wasn’t the Academy training that drove her instincts, but rather hours spent in the sun learning from her mothers.


	9. Comic Con

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From an SDCC photoset

It felt a bit weird up on a dais in front of thousands of screaming, well, fans. She was a detective and she was there with secret government agents in a room usually hosting superheroes and aliens and cartoon characters’ voices. She and her moms and Pete, Steve and Claudia were on a panel called “Snag, Bag and Tag: Real-Life Action Heroes Saving the Day.”

An artifact had gotten out of hand in Southern California earlier in the year, and it had taken the combined efforts of the Warehouse and several divisions of the LAPD to contain the population until they could neutralize all of the water supply that had come through a pipe replaced with recycled steel from an old factory (the City of Angels had been overcome with hallucinations of repetitive hard labor and extreme exhaustion). Even though she could have done without all the media attention that followed — everyone who’d followed the news of the “Special Team U” who saved LA had formed a kind of fan club and had banded together via social media to campaign for a chance to have a sit-down with the agents — she had fully enjoyed the opportunity to be a liaison and show her moms how capable she was on the job. And she loved watching her mom and mama out in the field, sharing those looks that didn’t need words, and catching one of them looking at her like she reminded her of the other. 

When they first heard about the “IRS Storage Space Sixers,” Pete had joked about getting invites to San Diego so “Myka can finally learn what Comic-Con is,” and her mom had thrown a patented left hook into his shoulder while commenting that he just wanted to pick up his Fangirl Credentials. Steve had snickered at the tables getting turned so quickly, and Claudia materialized in the room before Pete could retaliate — and he was immediately distracted by the laminated pass on a lanyard that the Caretaker thrust between the two adults-who-still-never-quite-acted-that-way-around-each-other agents.

Obviously they weren’t explaining the supernatural origins of artifacts, or giving away any information about the location of the Warehouse, but here they were on a stage answering questions about traveling the world and being chosen for such dangerous missions, about how they really were all family. Her mama had answered the fewest questions, since it would have caused a riot in a room full of geeks and nerds to be told they were in the presence of the H.G. Wells, but was apparently getting the last one from the crowd before the end of the panel.

"…so, I guess, what I mean is, looking at you and your daughter, what do you use to get your hair like that? Do you actually have stuff you’ve ‘snagged,’ like, I dunno, dragon’s blood or unicorn tears?”


End file.
